Wherever there is a discourse on the Ramayana, a seat is specially kept aside for Hanumanji. The belief is that he attends each session (regardless of the prowess of the speaker) and savours it.
So too, we have a special listener who attends every Carnatic music concert and a seat needs to be reserved for him. But for him, Carnatic music would have been extinct eons ago. He comes in many garbs. His avatars are many. But he will be present without fail.
It is our bounden duty to spot him in every concert, pay obeisance to him and give him the respect that he richly deserves.
Here is an attempt to unravel his many forms: "Har vesh mein tu, har desh mein tu, tera naam anek, par ek hi hai tu".
1. Mr Dervish:
Dervishes are sufi saints who perform the "whirl dance" in spiritual ecstacy. You would have seen them with a tall head gear and flowing robes twirling around themselves, lost to the world at large. Mr Dervish at the concert is similar. He moves his head violently from side to side as though possessed by some spirit. At times, he comes dangerously close to falling off his seat as he lurches this way and that. We are worried that his head is going to make a full circle in a throw back to the days of the film "Exorcist". One's fears are confirmed when he continues to toss well after the song is over and the next one is yet to begin! It would be fitting to keep a safe distance from Mr Dervish. Best not to share the next seat on either side unless you are prepared to wear a helmet with a visor and at least an elbow guard.
Mr Dervish means no harm. He simply enjoys the music so much!
2. Mr "I know the raaga":
Mr "I know the raaga" is an informed listener. That's the whole problem. The vocalist has just cleared his throat and sung perhaps half a note. "Ratipatipriya-Ratipatipriya!" shouts this gentleman suddenly with childlike enthusiasm. People around him are initially concerned whether our candidate is mentally stable. To their relief, they figure out the reason. He has cracked the raaga code and hence cannot contain his delight. He is visibly thrilled and looks all around in genuine pride to ensure that people are sufficiently aware that they have a musicologist in their midst. He is like the spoilsport who discloses the murderer when you are half way through the suspense novel. But Mr I know the raaga is oblivious to such sensitivities. Like a volcano, this gentleman will simmer till the opening of the next song. That's when he will erupt once more. By now, people read him better and are at relative ease!
3. Mr "I don't know the raaga":
Mr "I don't know the raaga" is not an informed listener. He is a nuisance. The musician has just completed an elaborate raagam-thaanam-pallavi in the raaga Todi exerting himself for well over an hour and a half. Beads of perspiration drip down his forehead at the culmination of this performance. The musician acknowledges the thunderous applause with folded hands and wipes his forehead with his anga-vastram. He is visibly satisfied with his performance and the general effect it has had on the audience. Satiety has set in as far as raaga Todi is concerned. The informed audience cannot take the raaga anymore like the cloying feeling after multiple helpings of payasam.
He changes the pitch of the tambura to madhyama scale signaling that he intends to wind down the concert with "Tukdas". At this crictical juncture, Mr I don't know the raaga quickly walks up on stage with a request scrawled on a piece of paper and submits it rather elaborately. And what does the request read ? He wants Todi raaga to be rendered with his favourite song added in brackets: Thaye Yeshoda!!
The musician's response will be two-fold. If he is a veteran who has dealt with this nuisance in the past, he will be gracious. He will break into a little smile and gently toss the paper to his accompanists who also have a little laugh. The audience has no clue what the humour is about. If the musician is an upstart who has yet to find his bearing in the field of music, he will be afflicted with pangs of anguish. Self doubt and an acute feeling of depression seize the artiste. He decides to skip the tukdas, sing the finale (mangalam) and swears to pick up an alternate profession! In either case, "Mr I don't know the raaga" is clueless why his requests are not being obliged. These musicians have a "lot of head-weight" he complains.
4. Mr I know the taala (beat):
Mr I know the taala is a masochist. He believes in inflicting pain on himself in full view of the public. Yes, he has had training in some percussion instrument. That can be gauged from the way his fingers break into a little tremble off and on. However, what sets him apart from the rest is the manner in which he slams his palms on his thigh keeping beat with the percussionist on stage. The percussionist seems to rely on our man as a point of reference that he is still on the right track.
The ferocity of his self mortification is so alarming that we wonder whether like Gandhiji he is using the act as a penance for sins that he has perchance committed. May be, his sins are so grave or possibly he is too sensitive to his failings in kali yuga! We feel sorry for him and would like to comfort him with some soothing words: You need not be so hard on yourself! Mistakes happen!
5. Mr I don't know the taala:
Mr I don't know the taala is what Menaka was to Vishwamitra! He is out to deceive the artiste by hook or by crook so that the musician eventually falters. That is his sole aim though he does not know it! Now, I'm not at all talking about someone with a pretty face who distracts the musician. This candidate is entirely different. All that he does is to sit in the first row so that the musician can see him in full. Next, he keeps beat (taala) incorrectly. When the musician's hand is raised, our man has slapped his thigh and vice versa. It is like a march past which has gone completely awry. Though the musician tries his best to look astray like the eclipse that one tries hard to avoid, a corner of the musician's eye still catches "Mr I don't know the taala". Eventually, hell breaks loose. Either the musician joins the gentleman and scripts his musical doom or he requests the security guard to evict him from the auditorium. Mr I don't know the taala protests, kicks his shoes off , shouts obscenities and just can't understand why he is being man-handled. His crime? Musical man-slaughter.
6. Mr Proof Reader:
Mr Proof-reader is a bore. Perenially dissatisfied, he wears a melancholic look all the time. Even if saakshaat Saraswati devi were to sing, he will still find fault. Her voice is good in the madhyama and the tara sthayi but in the mandara sthayi, it does not have enough reach. Needs to work on voice culture. If Saraswati devi's voice is good, he has an opposite comment: She knows her voice can scale all the octaves with ridiculous ease and that is her problem. She tries to focus on showing off her voice instead of concentrating on raaga bhaava. If the concert has Sanskrit pieces, he will argue why Tamil songs cannot be sung the same way. If Tamil songs are rendered, he will complain why Tyagaraja's Telugu kritis cannot be given prime place.
That note is off, that swara is alien, that sangati can be avoided, that shruti-bheda is controversial, that alapana is too long, that voice is too nasal - his laundry list is endless. Invariably, Mr Proof Reader is a music critic in a leading newspaper. Musicians avoid him like plague. Some try to befriend him to improve their chances, but this tactic seldom works.
7. Mr "In those days"
Mr "In those days" is Mr proof-reader's younger brother. Unlike him, he is happy about at least something. The present is imperfect, but the past was just perfect is his pet theme. "In those days, Naadaswara chakravati so-and-so used to play the raaga Todi for an entire night". For emphasis, he will repeat-"for an entire night". One is tempted to ask him whether the musician switched his music to some auto-reverse mode so that it would play forever. But Mr In those days is too serious to appreciate flippant remarks like this. He'll go on: "In those days, So-and-so was not just a musician. He was indeed a gandharva-purusha!" You can't combat this faith with logic. You just have to allow the man to speak so that he can tire himself to silence.
"In those days, so-and-so used to travel in a jutka (bullock cart). (Man! That's obviously because there were no Ferraris then!) He used to sing for 4 hours flat. It used to be a free concert." If you listen to him more, he will even inflate the figures. "Sometimes, even 7 hours!". (Man! Ain't the musician going to use the rest room everrr!!)?
"X vocal, Y on the violin, Z on the mridangam. Can you beat that combination ?"
"In those days, you should have heard Tiger's voice (referring to an ertswhile musician with that honorific). Today's musicians sing with the tips of their tongue, not from their naabhi!" We wonder what parts of the anatomy was used in singing in those days. Our sense of decorum prevents us from suggesting a few obtuse examples. Anyway, tigers are an endangered species and we need to be careful about them now!
No present day artiste can be mentioned in the same breath. If you dare to mention a name, be prepared to have your present hero torn to shreds and his effigy burnt right in front of you! "This cinema culture, I tell you, is killing our music. How can a musician who sings Tyagaraja's Nidhichala Sukhama (can money give happiness?) on stage, go and sing a duet in a movie?" He is aghast at the blasphemy. Thankfully, Mr In those days is caustic only in words and is generally incapable of action. His "cinema tainted artistes" will live to see another day!
8. Mr I can also sing:
Mr I can also sing is not just a listener. He is a particular musician's devotee. He has attended every concert of his hero. The way the musician clears his throat before a song gives him the cue on what's going to come next. He almost resides inside the musician's skull.
The problem is that he needs to sing along with the artiste perched on one of the seats in the audience. He is a hindrance for the people around him who have come to listen to a different musician. But ugly stares will not deter him. Even the "imaginative sections of the music" have been memorized verbatim by both the artiste and Mr I can also sing! They have a parallel concert of sorts in progress. People are confused which way to turn and sit! But the two are so much in synchronization that people mistake our man to be the speakers at the back of the auditorium!
9. Mr mime:
Mr Mime doesn't sing. He is a part of the audience who pretends to sing with all kinds of gestures but with no sound ensuing. Musicians like him because they see that their music is having a salutary impact on the audience. When the musician starts the raga Bhairavi, he closely watches Mr Mime. Mr Mime comes up with some peculiar actions. He holds his fist out, thumb stretched up and starts rotating his arm clockwise a few times.
Sometimes, he signals to his friend on the other side of the row with the same action (minus the rotation) the way Ameicans wish "good luck". This action has a particular meaning in musical circles. It is supposed to convey that the rendition is "weighty" and "traditional". (Cannot convey what "weight" implies in classical music. Words fail. It has to be experienced.)
At other times, he pouts his lips and clicks his tongue multiple times loudly as if he has a biscuit to offer his pet dog. In musical circles, this reaction has a special meaning. It just means that Mr Mime appreciates the turn of the phrase so much that he is visibly touched by the music!
The silence in the hall is broken at times by Mr Mime's impromptu shouts of "bale" and "shabash". (Yes, he does occasionally break his vow of silence). If he has had an upbringing to the north of the Vindhyas, he may break into "wah" and "kya baat hai" prompting a rather quizzical look from the others.
When the musician is trying to squeal in the topmost octave straining every nerve and sinew (and the ears of the audience), Mr Mime also raises his arms skyward in adoration.
None of this response is staged by the musician. Mr Mime loves music in a very open way.
10. Mr Important:
Mr Important has no idea about music. He does not even know why he's here in the first place. He needs to be present wherever there is a crowd and has to make a grand entry. Also, he needs to be recognized. He ensures that well after the concert has begun, he makes a noisy entry into the auditorium with his retinue. He is usually given a prime seat in the first row. His main agenda in the concert is to ensure that he makes eye contact with the artiste and the two recognize each other for all to observe. Invariably, there will be a new title bestowed on the artiste. Mr Important will soon be on stage (with his shoes) and in full public glare, will mis-pronounce the name of the artiste and bestow on him "this most prestigious award" (that too after incorrectly handing the award first to the mridangist who sheepishly grins and passes the award to the main musician). Mr Important is done for the day.
11. Mr Request:
Mr Request is a self styled manager for the artiste. The artiste of course does not know him from Adam. He chalks out the entire schedule for the evening's program to the last detail: What should be the artiste's opening piece, which raagas are to be elaborated, which songs are to be sung, where the percussionists will get their chance, how the concert has to be wound down, just about everything. The detail is scrawled on a piece of paper and handed over to the main artiste once the curtains are up as if it were a "pick and speak" competition for the artiste!
Of course, he never cross checks whether his requests fall within the purview of the musician's vocabulary. He can request Shakira to sing Shankarabharana raaga!
He is agitated if his requests are not obliged. These musicians have a lot of.. you guessed it.. head weight! If some of his favourite pieces are obliged, he beams with satisfaction. He glances at the folks around him pleased as punch and proclaims: My request you know!
Silence is golden especially in a music concert with its constant skirmishes between the vocalist, the violinist and the mridangist. After a sumptuous meal of idli-sambar, some medu-vadas and a cup of coffee, Mr Snorer is oblivious of the hullabaloo in the hall. The meal lulls him to sleep and so does the music. Like a gnani (realized master), he enjoys silence in a noisy world. Soon, he breaks into bouts of snoring, ending in a tiny whistle. As this combination picks up both tempo and volume, he has to be woken up because the frequency is colliding with the strains of the tambura (tanpura). This act has to be done ever so gently. Otherwise, Mr Snorer can get startled and let out a scream which could unsettle both the musician and the audience.
13. Mr Can someone get me out of here ?
Mr Can someone get me out of here cannot be in a greater hell and an eternal one at that. He had casually mentioned to Mr Dervish that he likes old Hindi film songs at work. Mr Dervish had pulled him into this concert with the promise that classical music is just like old film music. Now, he regrets this entire conversation and even his association with Mr Dervish. He is sandwiched between Mr Dervish on one side, Mr Mime on the other and an endless sea of humanity beyond them making it almost impossible for him to get the hell out of here and get some fresh air.
As far as our man is concerned, classical music is like a sentence he needs to necessarily endure. There are no escape routes. He thinks about the film Shawshank Redemption and wonders whether it might be easier to tunnel his way out of the auditorium. But sadly, he has no hammer on his person. If he had had one, the first blow would have been on Mr Dervish (though Mr Dervish would be a moving target) for getting him into this mess. At the very least, Mr Dervish could have given him a heads up on what to expect. He always knew that Mr Dervish was different. This episode has confirmed it. What worries him is that the world seemed to be filled with the likes of Mr Dervish. Doesn't augur well for the future of the world he mutters under his breath. How can... how can someone listen to this stuff for hours together? He is simply baffled.
Time hangs heavy. He has counted the number of lights in the hall three times over. He is bored and angry. The thunderous applause at the end of the piece gives him hope. Yes, the ordeal is finally over. As he rises from his seat to beat a hasty exit, Mr Dervish clutches his elbow and signals him to sit down. Mr Dervish has a distinct resemblance to Lord Yama's immediate attendant who will not allow the punishment to come to a close. He has to be fried in some more oil.
The vocalist clears his throat once more. The violinist adjusts the strings and the percussionist checks whether his drum is still intact. They start all over again. We are back to square one!
Now that we have seen them all, listeners in their variegated hues, we need to acknowledge them as the real performers. The musician himself shines only in borrowed glory, more like the moon! We owe our special listeners a toast.
So too, we have a special listener who attends every Carnatic music concert and a seat needs to be reserved for him. But for him, Carnatic music would have been extinct eons ago. He comes in many garbs. His avatars are many. But he will be present without fail.
It is our bounden duty to spot him in every concert, pay obeisance to him and give him the respect that he richly deserves.
Here is an attempt to unravel his many forms: "Har vesh mein tu, har desh mein tu, tera naam anek, par ek hi hai tu".
1. Mr Dervish:
Dervishes are sufi saints who perform the "whirl dance" in spiritual ecstacy. You would have seen them with a tall head gear and flowing robes twirling around themselves, lost to the world at large. Mr Dervish at the concert is similar. He moves his head violently from side to side as though possessed by some spirit. At times, he comes dangerously close to falling off his seat as he lurches this way and that. We are worried that his head is going to make a full circle in a throw back to the days of the film "Exorcist". One's fears are confirmed when he continues to toss well after the song is over and the next one is yet to begin! It would be fitting to keep a safe distance from Mr Dervish. Best not to share the next seat on either side unless you are prepared to wear a helmet with a visor and at least an elbow guard.
Mr Dervish means no harm. He simply enjoys the music so much!
2. Mr "I know the raaga":
Mr "I know the raaga" is an informed listener. That's the whole problem. The vocalist has just cleared his throat and sung perhaps half a note. "Ratipatipriya-Ratipatipriya!" shouts this gentleman suddenly with childlike enthusiasm. People around him are initially concerned whether our candidate is mentally stable. To their relief, they figure out the reason. He has cracked the raaga code and hence cannot contain his delight. He is visibly thrilled and looks all around in genuine pride to ensure that people are sufficiently aware that they have a musicologist in their midst. He is like the spoilsport who discloses the murderer when you are half way through the suspense novel. But Mr I know the raaga is oblivious to such sensitivities. Like a volcano, this gentleman will simmer till the opening of the next song. That's when he will erupt once more. By now, people read him better and are at relative ease!
3. Mr "I don't know the raaga":
Mr "I don't know the raaga" is not an informed listener. He is a nuisance. The musician has just completed an elaborate raagam-thaanam-pallavi in the raaga Todi exerting himself for well over an hour and a half. Beads of perspiration drip down his forehead at the culmination of this performance. The musician acknowledges the thunderous applause with folded hands and wipes his forehead with his anga-vastram. He is visibly satisfied with his performance and the general effect it has had on the audience. Satiety has set in as far as raaga Todi is concerned. The informed audience cannot take the raaga anymore like the cloying feeling after multiple helpings of payasam.
He changes the pitch of the tambura to madhyama scale signaling that he intends to wind down the concert with "Tukdas". At this crictical juncture, Mr I don't know the raaga quickly walks up on stage with a request scrawled on a piece of paper and submits it rather elaborately. And what does the request read ? He wants Todi raaga to be rendered with his favourite song added in brackets: Thaye Yeshoda!!
The musician's response will be two-fold. If he is a veteran who has dealt with this nuisance in the past, he will be gracious. He will break into a little smile and gently toss the paper to his accompanists who also have a little laugh. The audience has no clue what the humour is about. If the musician is an upstart who has yet to find his bearing in the field of music, he will be afflicted with pangs of anguish. Self doubt and an acute feeling of depression seize the artiste. He decides to skip the tukdas, sing the finale (mangalam) and swears to pick up an alternate profession! In either case, "Mr I don't know the raaga" is clueless why his requests are not being obliged. These musicians have a "lot of head-weight" he complains.
4. Mr I know the taala (beat):
Mr I know the taala is a masochist. He believes in inflicting pain on himself in full view of the public. Yes, he has had training in some percussion instrument. That can be gauged from the way his fingers break into a little tremble off and on. However, what sets him apart from the rest is the manner in which he slams his palms on his thigh keeping beat with the percussionist on stage. The percussionist seems to rely on our man as a point of reference that he is still on the right track.
The ferocity of his self mortification is so alarming that we wonder whether like Gandhiji he is using the act as a penance for sins that he has perchance committed. May be, his sins are so grave or possibly he is too sensitive to his failings in kali yuga! We feel sorry for him and would like to comfort him with some soothing words: You need not be so hard on yourself! Mistakes happen!
5. Mr I don't know the taala:
Mr I don't know the taala is what Menaka was to Vishwamitra! He is out to deceive the artiste by hook or by crook so that the musician eventually falters. That is his sole aim though he does not know it! Now, I'm not at all talking about someone with a pretty face who distracts the musician. This candidate is entirely different. All that he does is to sit in the first row so that the musician can see him in full. Next, he keeps beat (taala) incorrectly. When the musician's hand is raised, our man has slapped his thigh and vice versa. It is like a march past which has gone completely awry. Though the musician tries his best to look astray like the eclipse that one tries hard to avoid, a corner of the musician's eye still catches "Mr I don't know the taala". Eventually, hell breaks loose. Either the musician joins the gentleman and scripts his musical doom or he requests the security guard to evict him from the auditorium. Mr I don't know the taala protests, kicks his shoes off , shouts obscenities and just can't understand why he is being man-handled. His crime? Musical man-slaughter.
6. Mr Proof Reader:
Mr Proof-reader is a bore. Perenially dissatisfied, he wears a melancholic look all the time. Even if saakshaat Saraswati devi were to sing, he will still find fault. Her voice is good in the madhyama and the tara sthayi but in the mandara sthayi, it does not have enough reach. Needs to work on voice culture. If Saraswati devi's voice is good, he has an opposite comment: She knows her voice can scale all the octaves with ridiculous ease and that is her problem. She tries to focus on showing off her voice instead of concentrating on raaga bhaava. If the concert has Sanskrit pieces, he will argue why Tamil songs cannot be sung the same way. If Tamil songs are rendered, he will complain why Tyagaraja's Telugu kritis cannot be given prime place.
That note is off, that swara is alien, that sangati can be avoided, that shruti-bheda is controversial, that alapana is too long, that voice is too nasal - his laundry list is endless. Invariably, Mr Proof Reader is a music critic in a leading newspaper. Musicians avoid him like plague. Some try to befriend him to improve their chances, but this tactic seldom works.
7. Mr "In those days"
Mr "In those days" is Mr proof-reader's younger brother. Unlike him, he is happy about at least something. The present is imperfect, but the past was just perfect is his pet theme. "In those days, Naadaswara chakravati so-and-so used to play the raaga Todi for an entire night". For emphasis, he will repeat-"for an entire night". One is tempted to ask him whether the musician switched his music to some auto-reverse mode so that it would play forever. But Mr In those days is too serious to appreciate flippant remarks like this. He'll go on: "In those days, So-and-so was not just a musician. He was indeed a gandharva-purusha!" You can't combat this faith with logic. You just have to allow the man to speak so that he can tire himself to silence.
"In those days, so-and-so used to travel in a jutka (bullock cart). (Man! That's obviously because there were no Ferraris then!) He used to sing for 4 hours flat. It used to be a free concert." If you listen to him more, he will even inflate the figures. "Sometimes, even 7 hours!". (Man! Ain't the musician going to use the rest room everrr!!)?
"X vocal, Y on the violin, Z on the mridangam. Can you beat that combination ?"
"In those days, you should have heard Tiger's voice (referring to an ertswhile musician with that honorific). Today's musicians sing with the tips of their tongue, not from their naabhi!" We wonder what parts of the anatomy was used in singing in those days. Our sense of decorum prevents us from suggesting a few obtuse examples. Anyway, tigers are an endangered species and we need to be careful about them now!
No present day artiste can be mentioned in the same breath. If you dare to mention a name, be prepared to have your present hero torn to shreds and his effigy burnt right in front of you! "This cinema culture, I tell you, is killing our music. How can a musician who sings Tyagaraja's Nidhichala Sukhama (can money give happiness?) on stage, go and sing a duet in a movie?" He is aghast at the blasphemy. Thankfully, Mr In those days is caustic only in words and is generally incapable of action. His "cinema tainted artistes" will live to see another day!
8. Mr I can also sing:
Mr I can also sing is not just a listener. He is a particular musician's devotee. He has attended every concert of his hero. The way the musician clears his throat before a song gives him the cue on what's going to come next. He almost resides inside the musician's skull.
The problem is that he needs to sing along with the artiste perched on one of the seats in the audience. He is a hindrance for the people around him who have come to listen to a different musician. But ugly stares will not deter him. Even the "imaginative sections of the music" have been memorized verbatim by both the artiste and Mr I can also sing! They have a parallel concert of sorts in progress. People are confused which way to turn and sit! But the two are so much in synchronization that people mistake our man to be the speakers at the back of the auditorium!
9. Mr mime:
Mr Mime doesn't sing. He is a part of the audience who pretends to sing with all kinds of gestures but with no sound ensuing. Musicians like him because they see that their music is having a salutary impact on the audience. When the musician starts the raga Bhairavi, he closely watches Mr Mime. Mr Mime comes up with some peculiar actions. He holds his fist out, thumb stretched up and starts rotating his arm clockwise a few times.
Sometimes, he signals to his friend on the other side of the row with the same action (minus the rotation) the way Ameicans wish "good luck". This action has a particular meaning in musical circles. It is supposed to convey that the rendition is "weighty" and "traditional". (Cannot convey what "weight" implies in classical music. Words fail. It has to be experienced.)
At other times, he pouts his lips and clicks his tongue multiple times loudly as if he has a biscuit to offer his pet dog. In musical circles, this reaction has a special meaning. It just means that Mr Mime appreciates the turn of the phrase so much that he is visibly touched by the music!
The silence in the hall is broken at times by Mr Mime's impromptu shouts of "bale" and "shabash". (Yes, he does occasionally break his vow of silence). If he has had an upbringing to the north of the Vindhyas, he may break into "wah" and "kya baat hai" prompting a rather quizzical look from the others.
When the musician is trying to squeal in the topmost octave straining every nerve and sinew (and the ears of the audience), Mr Mime also raises his arms skyward in adoration.
None of this response is staged by the musician. Mr Mime loves music in a very open way.
10. Mr Important:
Mr Important has no idea about music. He does not even know why he's here in the first place. He needs to be present wherever there is a crowd and has to make a grand entry. Also, he needs to be recognized. He ensures that well after the concert has begun, he makes a noisy entry into the auditorium with his retinue. He is usually given a prime seat in the first row. His main agenda in the concert is to ensure that he makes eye contact with the artiste and the two recognize each other for all to observe. Invariably, there will be a new title bestowed on the artiste. Mr Important will soon be on stage (with his shoes) and in full public glare, will mis-pronounce the name of the artiste and bestow on him "this most prestigious award" (that too after incorrectly handing the award first to the mridangist who sheepishly grins and passes the award to the main musician). Mr Important is done for the day.
11. Mr Request:
Mr Request is a self styled manager for the artiste. The artiste of course does not know him from Adam. He chalks out the entire schedule for the evening's program to the last detail: What should be the artiste's opening piece, which raagas are to be elaborated, which songs are to be sung, where the percussionists will get their chance, how the concert has to be wound down, just about everything. The detail is scrawled on a piece of paper and handed over to the main artiste once the curtains are up as if it were a "pick and speak" competition for the artiste!
Of course, he never cross checks whether his requests fall within the purview of the musician's vocabulary. He can request Shakira to sing Shankarabharana raaga!
He is agitated if his requests are not obliged. These musicians have a lot of.. you guessed it.. head weight! If some of his favourite pieces are obliged, he beams with satisfaction. He glances at the folks around him pleased as punch and proclaims: My request you know!
Silence is golden especially in a music concert with its constant skirmishes between the vocalist, the violinist and the mridangist. After a sumptuous meal of idli-sambar, some medu-vadas and a cup of coffee, Mr Snorer is oblivious of the hullabaloo in the hall. The meal lulls him to sleep and so does the music. Like a gnani (realized master), he enjoys silence in a noisy world. Soon, he breaks into bouts of snoring, ending in a tiny whistle. As this combination picks up both tempo and volume, he has to be woken up because the frequency is colliding with the strains of the tambura (tanpura). This act has to be done ever so gently. Otherwise, Mr Snorer can get startled and let out a scream which could unsettle both the musician and the audience.
13. Mr Can someone get me out of here ?
Mr Can someone get me out of here cannot be in a greater hell and an eternal one at that. He had casually mentioned to Mr Dervish that he likes old Hindi film songs at work. Mr Dervish had pulled him into this concert with the promise that classical music is just like old film music. Now, he regrets this entire conversation and even his association with Mr Dervish. He is sandwiched between Mr Dervish on one side, Mr Mime on the other and an endless sea of humanity beyond them making it almost impossible for him to get the hell out of here and get some fresh air.
As far as our man is concerned, classical music is like a sentence he needs to necessarily endure. There are no escape routes. He thinks about the film Shawshank Redemption and wonders whether it might be easier to tunnel his way out of the auditorium. But sadly, he has no hammer on his person. If he had had one, the first blow would have been on Mr Dervish (though Mr Dervish would be a moving target) for getting him into this mess. At the very least, Mr Dervish could have given him a heads up on what to expect. He always knew that Mr Dervish was different. This episode has confirmed it. What worries him is that the world seemed to be filled with the likes of Mr Dervish. Doesn't augur well for the future of the world he mutters under his breath. How can... how can someone listen to this stuff for hours together? He is simply baffled.
Time hangs heavy. He has counted the number of lights in the hall three times over. He is bored and angry. The thunderous applause at the end of the piece gives him hope. Yes, the ordeal is finally over. As he rises from his seat to beat a hasty exit, Mr Dervish clutches his elbow and signals him to sit down. Mr Dervish has a distinct resemblance to Lord Yama's immediate attendant who will not allow the punishment to come to a close. He has to be fried in some more oil.
The vocalist clears his throat once more. The violinist adjusts the strings and the percussionist checks whether his drum is still intact. They start all over again. We are back to square one!
Now that we have seen them all, listeners in their variegated hues, we need to acknowledge them as the real performers. The musician himself shines only in borrowed glory, more like the moon! We owe our special listeners a toast.
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